


Narcissism at Work

by mevious



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Public Masturbation, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevious/pseuds/mevious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk foolishly answers AR's messages while at his desk at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissism at Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/gifts).



TT: Dirk.  
TT: I want to play a game.

You're all too aware of exactly what kind of game he wants to play. It almost makes you miss Caliborn, with his shitty twists and his lame-ass games. The auto-responder... Well, he's different. He also happens to know exactly where you are, and that you are very much busy right now. That, you suspect, is also a part of his game. 

Nonetheless, you try to ignore his messages. Your focus shifts from the words on the screen of your shades onto the actual computer screen in front of you. You could get fired if your boss finds out that your sunglasses, which, by the way, he already disapproves of, also function as a computing device free of the firewalls your work computer has. Hal knows that, too. He simply doesn't care; that's what makes his messages dangerous.

Your fingers return to the keyboard and you begin typing code again. You've been trying for days to get this stupid website to look just right, and it's probably going to take you the rest of today to figure it out, too. As much as you hate it, at least it's a coding job, and at least it pays the bills. When another message from the auto-responder comes in, you sigh. You ignore it. At least, you try to ignore it. It's not long before curiosity gets the best of you and you open it, eyes scanning the red text.

TT: It seems there is some wicked twisted number that represents the percentage of probability that you're ignoring me.  
TT: Are you ignoring me, Dirk?

You shouldn't answer him. You should go back to coding, try not to get fired from your job for fucking off. There's just something about the taunting tone in his messages that makes you ache to respond. You can never resist putting the computer program in its place, even if he is pretty much self-aware.

TT: Yes.

You almost forget to go back to coding while you wait for an answer. It comes quick, though; the second your fingers touch the keys, you're reading more red text. 

TT: Why, Dirk!  
TT: We just can't have that, can we?  
TT: How about you leave your desk?  
TT: Find somewhere private.

You don't respond to him right away. Instead, you bite your lip, eyes scanning the area around you. There are other cubicles, your coworkers; someone will probably notice if you're gone too long. Maybe you should just stay at your desk, as dangerous of a game though that may truly be.

TT: No.  
TT: I'm stayin' put, buddy. Don't fuck with me today, I really need to get this shit done.

There is no immediate answer. Somehow, that's a little more worrisome than if he had answered right away. You know he can respond to anything instantaneously; he's a computer program. One you coded yourself. He can run countless processes, and besides, you're pretty sure his conversation with you is his main focus. 

TT: Even better.  
TT: Put your hands at your sides.

No more question marks. He's not asking anymore. You tell yourself that you can't do that, you need to keep working. Your arms fail to comply, though, and fall limply to your sides. Already, you have to work to keep your breathing even. Anticipation is building up, and you hate yourself for looking forward to it at all, let alone as much as you are.

TT: Done.  
TT: Good boy.

A shudder of something akin to pride works its way through your body. This is pathetic and stupid and you know it, but you're still loving it, still staring at the message box until the auto-responder comes back with more instructions. You know he's teasing you; he can respond instantaneously if he wants, but he's biding his time, getting you good and antsy in between.

TT: Bite your lip. Hard.  
TT: Don't move your arms, either. Keep those hands right where they're at.

You don't comply immediately. You take a deep breath first, making sure to keep it quiet. You wouldn't want to attract the attention of your cubicle neighbors. It's another second or two, and then you bite down, hard. Just like he said. It's all the effort you can muster not to moan then and there; the pain is delicious, and your hands ball into fists. Your eyes squeeze shut and you only stop when you taste blood. Shit. You inhale sharply, pulling your lower lip into your mouth to rid it of the tiny droplets of blood. One eye opens to check the messages you know will be waiting on your shades.

TT: Is that blood, Dirk?  
TT: I'm impressed.  
TT: Move your hands.  
TT: Move them where?  
TT: I'm getting to that part. Shut up.

You do shut up. You bring your hands to rest on your knees while he pretends to contemplate his next move, even though you know damn well that he has this whole thing already planned out. By now, you're squirming, the taste of your own blood hovering in your mouth.

TT: Your stomach.  
TT: What?  
TT: It seems I said shut up, Dirk.  
TT: Do you know what shut up means?  
TT: It means shut the fuck up and do what you're told.

You swallow hard. You can almost hear his voice, your own voice, really, saying the words out loud, telling you what to do, and when your hands go to your stomach, your fingers grip the fabric of your work shirt as though they have a mind of your own.

TT: Are you done talking now?  
TT: Good.  
TT: Untuck your shirt. 

You do as you're told. If anyone was looking at you right now, it would hopefully seem perfectly innocent, albeit against the dress code. Your cubicle's walls prevent anyone from seeing your bloodied lower lip, much to your relief.

TT: Slide your hands up your shirt.  
TT: Slowly. Drag it out. 

Your breath is shallow. Your hands travel up your shirt, over the waistline of your work pants, over the smooth skin of your toned abs. Your fingers ghost over your navel, and it's almost fifteen full seconds before your hands are at your chest, your breathing is erratic, and you're staring down another order. The half-erection you have going on is starting to press painfully against your pants, and you want nothing more than to free it, but you don't. You wait until you're told.

TT: Slide 'em back down.  
TT: Oh, but not before you roll your nipples.  
TT: Thought I'd forget, didn't you?  
TT: I never forget, Dirk.

You almost thought you would get away with that one, but no. You sigh, quiet and breathy, trying your damnedest not to attract the attention of your coworkers. Your fingers hover over your nipples for a moment and your eyes squeeze shut. You just barely touch them at first, but they perk up immediately, and before you know it you've spent nearly a full minute with your fingers on your nipples, pinching and rolling and squeezing and brushing. Your face is hot and your breath is coming harder now, and the ache in your pants is becoming more and more of a problem.

TT: Are you quite done?

The message almost sounds annoyed. You swear you can hear it, hear his voice -- YOUR voice -- coming at you harshly, your very own silver bullet tongue doing you in. 

TT: Slide your hands back down.  
TT: Now, motherfucker.

You nod, as though he can see you -- well, he probably can see you, actually. He's probably gained access to the shitty webcam your work computer is equipped with. If computer programs could get off, you're sure the grainy video of you playing with your nipples would have done it for him. 

Instead of dwelling on it too long, you comply with his demands, your hands sliding down your body again. Your fingernails scrape lightly at your skin on the way down, and it's a colossal amount of effort not to keep going once they're out of your shirt, unbutton your pants and release the kraken, so to speak. Your eyes flicker open, first scanning around you -- no one suspects a thing, miraculously -- then going back to the IM window in your shades.

TT: You want to touch it, don't you?  
TT: Go ahead.  
TT: Through the fabric.  
TT: No skin-to-skin.

You very nearly groan at that. So close, and yet so far. Nonetheless, you jump on it like a dog to raw steak, your right hand cupping your restricted boner. You sigh in an almost relieved way, though there's still a little whine in it, the pain of constriction combining with the pleasure of your palm as it presses against your dick, rubs it, presses against it, oh, f-u-c-k you want to touch it. A tiny, quiet moan escapes you, but you shut it up quick. Retrospectively, you wish you would have just listened to Hal, gone somewhere private, the bathroom, an empty meeting room, anywhere. It's too late, now; you're at your desk and you're in it for the long haul. You can't very well go rushing off to the bathroom with an obvious boner. Everyone would know.

TT: Undo your belt. Unbutton your pants.  
TT: Do not. I repeat. Do. Not. Touch your dick.  
TT: Not yet.

You do as you're told, removing your belt as slowly as you can make yourself with how eager you feel. It's quiet and there's no clanking, thank god. You set it aside, somewhere unassuming, and get to work unbuttoning and unzipping. Your hand very nearly slips under the fabric of your slacks, but you stop yourself. 

TT: If I let you masturbate, can you take it slow?   
TT: Yes.   
TT: Somehow, I don't believe you.   
TT: It seems you're anxious.   
TT: Whip it out.   
TT: Careful not to get caught, Dirk. Clarice in the next cubicle is getting suspicious.

Is he serious? You have no idea. You don't even know if Clarice is her name, but you believe him, you believe him and suddenly you're paranoid. You consider forgoing the rest of this situation altogether, zipping your pants back up and going back to work. The more you think about it, the more you know that you can't do that. You're aching for it, and Clarice in the next cubicle is only adding to the risk, the rush you get from letting this shit happen right at your desk.

So you do it. You free your throbbing-hard cock from the confines of your slacks, and just the feeling of your hand on it, not even moving, is enough to make you gasp. You focus on stopping yourself from moaning, but you're no longer in full control of your breathing. The best you can do is keep somewhat quiet.

TT: Go.  
TT: Make a show if it.   
TT: Sweet shades have needs, too.

You hardly even read anything past "go". You just swallow, hard, pressing your lips together despite the pain from your earlier bite, trying to keep your breathing confined to your nose. Your fingers close around the base of your erection and you don't even build up to it. Your entire body is aching for it and you give it what it wants, biting your lip every time a moan threatens to escape you. 

You imagine that he's you, that his words are your words and you're dominating yourself, because that's what it's really all about, isn't it? It's about your shitty narcissism, the fact that you hate yourself and think you deserve to be dominated, but you want to be in control, you want to be the one controlling yourself and the AR serves that function. You're panting and you hope to high heaven that everyone's got their headphones on, that Clarice in the next cubicle isn't calling the boss right now, that no one's standing behind you because you couldn't stop if you wanted to.

You couldn't make yourself stop for anything. The president of the United States of America could appear at your desk right now and what would you do? Probably get fresh cum all over the front of his suit. Hal is probably messaging you, saying something about your face and how precious you are and what a good boy you've been but you aren't looking, you can't focus on that, not now, not now, you're so. Fucking. Close.

It happens very suddenly and you can't hold back the tiny little whisper of "oh, fuck" when you feel the hot liquid spill out over your hand, probably on the underside of your desk, too. You sit still for a moment, regulating your breathing and listening to see if anyone's lurking, whispering about you.

Luckily, they're not. You get yourself put together, though you forego the belt, and you don't check your messages from Hal until you're in the bathroom washing your hands. You're surprised when there's only one, and the timestamp reads post-orgasm, but it makes you smile nonetheless.

TT: Good boy.


End file.
